From the old sofa in Tony Ballz’s Basement—As our three loyal fans can attest, The Daily Discord’s Search Truth Quest team continues to unravel the truth behind many hauntings and cryptid sightings across the southwest. Just last month we discovered that nothing paranormal whatsoever was occurring over at Hops on Birch pub. We shut this case after dedicating dozens of man hours, night after night, staking the place out. We left no Stone IPA unturned.

This is going to sound really stupid, but a ghost messed up my whole spoof ghost investigation. You see, the operative word is ‘spoof’. I have a bad reputation to uphold. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I have an understanding with the supernatural; it leaves me alone and I leave it alone. I hang out in haunted places, hear some cool ghost stories, do some sightseeing and then make a bunch of shit up for this blog. You’ve read the stories. So whatever the hell was messing with me at the Hotel St. Michael, kindly get an afterlife! Click full story for ghostly images.

This is a review of a place I already love, but don’t get too excited—that usually means I ask for a set of keys, drink all your beer and then throw an endless house warming party for myself. This pub already evokes both a resounding Hear! Hear!, as well as a simultaneous what the hell were you people thinking! I am either off my bipolar meds again, or watching Colbert’s "Tip of the Hat, Wag of the Finger." Stay tuned for a glorious rant, done out of love.

Tucson is an interesting town. I immediately got a sense of the local color here, which is beige. All color in Arizona, local or otherwise, is some derivative of beige. Upon pulling into town I was greeted by a man yelling out of his car window, "Pick a lane, asshole!" and I thought, "Wow, I’m home."

Whenever a major apparition is captured on film, you can bet the Discord’s Ghost Blunders are there...um, or at least sleeping down the hall. My daughter captured the best image to date with her iPhone, several feet from my bedroom. Did I mention I’m her inspiration for ghost hunting? Okay, she thinks I’m an idiot but, hey, I paid for the iPhone that took the image. So there. Click to see this truly creepy picture!

Durango, CO—Reaching the fabled city of Durango could mean only one thing, we’ve arrived at the last installment of this important four part Colorado series on the para-abnormal. Durango literally means "water town"—which recently spurred Watertown, NY, to officially change its name to Durango, because the Mayor said, "It sounds way cooler." Besides, Durango has like, what? four brewpubs? What the hell does Watertown, New York have? Water? Yeah, I wouldn’t’ drink that.

Ouray, CO—Part two of our compelling four part series takes us to Ouray. The town is about as scenically situated as our last Rocky Mountain sojourn, Telluride. These days I only do sojourns. You want an adventure vacation, go with Cokie McGrath. She’ll have you climbing the Matterhorn by lunchtime. Luckily, the Matterhorn in Ouray is a cheesy motel and I’ve already been on the roof...with a beer.

I’m probably like you, except for my quasi-homelessness, my unusual cravings for chocolate shaped like human body parts, and my history of stalking women whose names don’t begin with vowels. But I’m different in that…I can’t wait for a real zombie plague! Sure skeptics will say this can’t happen, or they’ll list a bunch of ‘scientific evidence’ discounting the possibility. I ignored science in high school and college, so I’ll be damned if I’m going to start paying attention to it now.

This might come as a shock to some of you, but I, Dave Atsals, spend a lot of time in bars. Unless this is my probation officer, in which case they are called coffee shops. I normally refer to these neon establishments as restaurants with refreshments. I spend so much time in bars, in fact, on occasion I must work to augment my income, aka, pay off my bar tab.

Ringling, OK—Located only twenty miles from U.S. Route 35, Ringling residents question why "no one ever stops here." The local gift shop, travel port, and gas distribution center reports only one item sold during the entire fiscal year.

Convenience store proprietor, Fran Mullins said, "The T-shirt we sold read: What happens in Ringling …No Really, What Happens in Ringling? It’s not really a joke so much as a cry for help."

Despite the abysmal sales, the town continues to look forward from their porch chairs. "We’re not looking back," said Mayor Johnson. "Nothing back there anyways. We think a mural on the side of Morley’s Hardware store might help—maybe of a bustling town. It’s a ‘paint it and they will come’ kind of philosophy. We are also thinking of a traffic light, so they have to stop. We just need to pave some type of cross street, I suppose."

Warren Morley, of Morley’s Hardware added, "There’s talk of a Panda Express opening next year. This is solely for the purpose of improving tourism, because, frankly, there’s not much demand for panda meat among locals."

The following is a real account of the incredible events that occurred on October 17th. These two vaguely-adult-like individuals, Mick Zano and Cokie McGrath, don’t agree on what exactly transpired after their "Occupy Wal-Mart" protest in nearby Cottonwood. Each insists their version of this hike-gone-horribly-wrong is the correct one. We’ll let you decide. The fact both of these intrepid explorers survived this ordeal is a testament to…who cares? But it’s really funny to laugh at them during this classic he said, she said. Enjoy.

This post is over two years in the making, but only because I just learned how to use Word. It took longer for Bald Tony and I to complete this arduous Irish/Vegas pubcrawl than it took Frodo and Sam to journey to Mordor. Granted, we would have remained at the Green Dragon until the orcs razed the place, but, who knows, maybe Sauron would have kept us on as Middle-Earth beer tasters? Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Yes Mr. Winslow, I just compared you to a dark sorcerer, but in a good way…really. Oh, on that note, I’ve just released a Nazgul toward Barad dur with our receipts.

Flagstaff, AZ—Brew Fests…what are they? Why would someone attend these things? What are the inherent dangers? They don’t want you to know any of this, but I think the information in this post is crucial. Here are ten simple rules that can save your life at such an event. So let’s go do the hop.

During my family’s last trip to Las Vegas, my daughter insisted on going on The Manhattan Express at the New York, New York casino. Never do this. It’s a harrowing rollercoaster ride, but, even more of a deterrent, it’s right by Nine Fine Irishmen. So what’s a good father to do? I sent ‘Vegas Great’ Bald Tony on with her, of course, and started toward me Guinness.

Prescott, AZ—This article has been a long time in the drinking. I have several crib notes on this place that have since been completely lost, which is a compliment to the establishment. I found Celtic Crossings a couple of years ago and now it has become one of my favorite Arizona Irish pubs. In fact, this pub changed my life…just not for the better.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—Over the past decade the use of ATVs has become more popular than ever, surpassing even the killing of harmless animals, the shooting of illegal immigrants, or other culturally important redneck pastimes (CIRP). The following observation on those who choose to drive an ATV is sadly accurate. The names have been changed to protect...I really didn’t get their names. Too much gurgling from all the blood in their throats.

Yours truly and Vegas’ great, Bald Tony, headed out for some ghost hunting adventures last weekend. The town of Jerome, AZ, has survived mine explosions, three major fires, and the reign of Governor Janet Brewer. This town and my old college party house have a lot in common. Incidentally, Janet was barred from The Havoc House my sophomore year. I remember it pained me at the time…having to throw out someone named Brewer.

I figured, Zano’s been up to see me in Vegas 5 times now, it was fine time to go see him. Never do this. He arbitrarily picks a weekend, and leave it to Zano to be completely oblivious about it being one of Flagstaff’s biggest event weekends. Driving into town was worse than going from Caesar’s to Mandalay Bay on a Saturday night. Geesh! And I wasn’t even getting paid! I think a 10 to 1 Vegas-to-Flagstaff visiting ratio from now on, Mikko.

With the spring breakers getting on my nerves, and the International Meeting of Procrastinators (IMP) postponed yet again, late March seemed as good a time as any to take a break from transporting strangers around in a Las Vegas taxi. So, I drove two of my friends to Phoenix for WrestleMania 26, or WrestleMania XXVI as it was known in Roman times. Even though I’m a much bigger fan of old school pro-wrestling than today’s version, WM is still a damn fun event. Besides, I’ve lived in Las Vegas almost 14 years and had yet to make it to Phoenix. It only seems fair I should spend some money there, since so many Phoenicians tip me on a daily basis.

Haneyville, PA—We Discordians have congregated at an annual party for about twenty years now. No one knows exactly why; it’s best not to question these things. Every June, like those Capistrano swallows, we migrate to a remote Pennsylvanian cabin deep in the Black Forest region of Sproul State Forest (thankfully not to spawn). The last party got a little strange…and not in the usual, bean fight, tree duct-tapping, naked fire dancing kind of strange. I’m talking real strange…

For my last trip to Vegas, I decided to look beyond the flashing and blinking lights of Sin City and really rate this town. Sorry, the blinking lights of Vegas are about as close to Christmas as you're going to get here at the Discord. The biggest hurdle to my destination came in the form of a brewpub, the Boiler Room, in Laughlin, Nevada. This pub, constructed like the bowels of a giant ship, had a sign out front that read: Thirsty Thursdays: All Drafts 1 Dollar. It happened to be Thursday and I was, in fact, thirsty. Hmmmm. I opened my wallet and implemented an old college equation. A dollar a beer, so if I have eighty-dollars in my wallet...then that means I have...er, carry the one...a shit load of beer!

This yarn is embellished approximately one-to-five percent due to age-related cognitive-decline, also known in certain Discord circles as Dave Atsals’ Syndrome (DAS). This tale is going to sound fictitious, like many of my stories, but I can assure you that those who knew me in the eighties and nineties would understand. You see, I settled down in the twenty-first century, when Dean Moriarty somehow morphed quietly into Ward Cleaver. Anyway, back in the Bruce Springsteenesque glory days, the night was dark and stormy. OK, the moon was very full, which may or may not have inspired me to dress like Lon Cheney’s version of the Wolfman. You know, old school. This was before American Werewolf in London, before Underworld, or even before Old School, for that matter. Back in those days we only had Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Warren Zevon to frighten us. If that didn’t work, my GPA usually did the trick.

My wife and I have spent considerable amounts of time and money in downtown New Hope, Pennsylvania. For those of you unfamiliar with this cozy little playhouse town, it’s well worth the stop. One weekend, while vacationing there, I even proposed to my wife (along with several other women who happened to pass at the time). We always try to hit New Hope whenever we’re within a hundred miles of the joint.

The para-abnormal research team consisted of Ranger Rick, who both led the investigation and set the pace (three pints an hour), Pierce Winslow, our tech-guru (who wrote the whole thing off as a business expense), Pokey McDooris, philosopher and sideshow attraction, Timmo O’Frynn, driver and camera man, Bob Krazmoski, treasurer and straight man, and, yours truly, Mick Zano, addiction counselor/beer enthusiast.

Buried deep in the heart of New England is an American treasure frequently, and tragically, overlooked. Indeed, while the average American is convinced that only one Stonehenge exists—somewhere in England—buried in the foliage-filled woods of Salem (NH, that is) lies a magical place known as America's Stonehenge. Indeed, England's Stonehenge is but a sad circle of stones in comparison.

I am worried about my friend, Mick. Unlike all the other Discordians, Mick believes he needs to better himself. Mick strives for lofty misguided goals in order to overcome his many inadequacies. He used to have a distinct, although often overbearing, personality and sense of humor. But, at least you knew what you were getting with Mick, trouble. Now he is only a shell of his old self. I refer to this shell as ‘m’.

"The last vestiges of hope have been snuffed out by the fact that she would be 121 years old if she were alive today," says great, great grandchild Sparky Earhart. "So if she were alive today, she would most certainly be dead," clarifies Sparky. When asked to speculate on his great great grandmother’s demise, Sparky had this to say, "I like to think that she was eaten alive by cannibals, because that would mean …no wait, not eaten alive by cannibals."

For several months Mick and I were planning a trip to Great Basin National Park. Alex Bone thought this was kind of funny. You see, Alex is a true outdoorsman, a throwback to another century, a man's man who makes Grizzly Adams look like Martha Stewart. Alex's advice was to stay on the marked trails while wearing bright clothing and warned us about entering the back country. Fine with me. While I actually like spending time outdoors, my idea of roughing it is staying at Bellagio when the Aria is booked.

This time the Discord’s Search Truth Quest team batted cleanup for those Ghost Adventure goons. Apparently they missed more evidence during their investigation than the Keystone Cops on shrooms. I’m sick of cleaning up after your messes, Zack! The Case of the Mizpah Hotel would challenge both my understanding of the para-abnormal as well as my understanding of valet parking. Click on Full Story for some of our ghostly evidence and cool video!

Flagstaff, AZ— We stepped right into it—right into a Hefescheiss as it’s called in Deutschland. Clearly the powers that be wanted us to stay. For the record, it was the only time I had ever gone to Mother Road Brewery for Purposes Other Than Ale (POTA). Hey, wasn’t POTA just struck down by the Supreme Court?

Against my better judgment I decided it was time to visit Zano again. Might have had something to do with the constant "Hey, Bald Tony, I’ve visited you 635 times since you last visited me!" Well, I do enjoy Flagstaff. It is not as fully loaded as Vegas, but it more than holds its own as a great little tourist town...despite Zano’s residency there.

Have you ever stopped at Prescott’s Whiskey Row? For those unfamiliar with the southwest, Prescott is a town nestled in a mountainous section of central Arizona. There’s a time I would have loved this rustic row of bars...er, like shortly after it debuted in 1877. But there’s at least one place on that block worthy of a stop. The Palace Saloon is old, historic, and quite haunted. It’s also the focus of The Ghost Blunder’s latest para-abnormal investigation.

Arkham, MA—Good evening, gentle readers. My name is Baron Von Hallens. But let me warn you, if I hear one more David Lee Roth joke, I will lay waste to the entire state of New Jersey! Unless Sandy beats me to it. I have been an immortal for six centuries and I have not seen worse politicians since Ambrosio Spinola back in the 1500s. That guy made W look like Stephen Hawking on ginkgo biloba.

Silverton, CO—Onward to part three of my epic four part series on the Ghosts of Colorado. My wife and I pulled into Silverton after surviving the treacherous "million dollar highway." They probably should have spent a little more than that and put up some flippin’ guardrails! In some spots, veering your car just a hair beyond the fog line means certain death. Silverton, meanwhile, is a quaint little place...at least from a distance. When you get closer it starts to look like Sanford & Son decided to go into the western town business. I tied the old Impala to a hitching post and found the first brewpub for some much needed "research".

Telluride, CO—The first segment of this epic four part Haunted Colorado series begins in one of the coolest towns in the country. And, at an elevation of nearly 9,000 feet, Telluride is so cool there’s still residual snowpack...in July. The town is named after the mineral Tellurium, which was used to enhance the hull-plating during one of the Enterprise’s missions threw a particularly hazardous region of space known as The Expanse. Or, maybe it’s named after that Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy character. Ok, I don’t really know, but I have posited two plausible theories so lay the hell off.

Ann Arbor, MI—As part of a sleep over, a group of teenage girls climbed into the Miller’s attic on June 16th and held an over four hour Ouija session with one of the residence’s ghosts. The paranormal entity later described the event as "fukcing ecxcruciatting" for a tortured soul who sufferers from dyslexia.

Discord reporter, Cokie McGrath, believes the ghost in question has resided in the attic where the game took place since his untimely death, nearly 80 years ago. The apparition stated he would rather be left alone than be assailed by a bunch of teenagers who, after hundreds of questions, still couldn’t figure out that yes/no questions worked best.

The young ladies, who wished to remain anonymous, were perplexed by the ghost’s indecipherable responses such as, "I have servere dylslexia" and "I deid in this vrey place" and finally, "Why don’t you bithces play somehting eles?!"

The young lady who hosted the party told McGrath she believes the ghost wasn’t murdered, but added, "He sure can murdre the English language. Get it...murdre?"

After the comment the ghost is planning to "Huant that littel shit for ettenrity!"

After the Made in the Shade incident, I swore I would never cover another brew festival again. I made this proclamation to my wife the next day, or maybe she told me. Well, the beauty of being me is no longer being burdened with any long or short term memory whatsoever. And, in retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have gone to that second party afterward.

Flagstaff, AZ—Arizona was still a territory when the Weatherford Hotel was erected in glorious downtown Flagstaff. The old hotel remains one of the coolest structures in the southwest. It’s the home of the Flagstaff Writing Group and it’s also quite haunted. The majority of the ghost sightings occur in the Zane Grey ballroom, so last week, with an almost unrivaled determination, Alex Bone and I made the intrepid 11 pace march from bar to ballroom.

Not many folks realize there is a Chinatown in Las Vegas. In fact, I was a local for nearly five years before I even found it…and it’s huge! I moved here in the year of the rabbit and didn’t find Chinatown until the year of the flipping ox. You see, Las Vegas Blvd runs north-south, dividing the city east-west, and I have always been an eastsider. Among locals, crossing LVB to go to the other side, whichever side that is, is generally considered unnecessary, stupid, and in some cases criminal.

Mick Zano was supposed to come for *sigh* yet another visit earlier this month. Due to circumstances beyond his control he had to delay a week. Unfortunately I was working overtime, so it looked like things were going to be a bust. Then, being the good friend and inadequate employee I am, I timed Zano’s visit with a three day suspension. Whoo Hoo! So, to be clear, I would not be getting paid for three days AND spending extra money. Dave Ramsey would not be pleased.

Sedona, AZ—Before I start making fun of the Red Rock Café, I have to say I am a fan of this joint. It’s my favorite coffee shop in this neck of the cacti. Their Americano is in the zone and, frankly, that’s all that matters. However, I really need to point out a huge flaw in this establishment’s architectural and ambiancical prowess. Yes, ambiancical is a word. I believe the root word, biancical, means of or like Beyoncé.

(For full effect please read in a good Sean Connery voice, or a lousy Mel Gibson voice.) Many people think Las Vegas is just hookers, Cirque du Soleil, casinos, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Sure, those things are thankfully prevalent, but there are also many festivals in the Las Vegas Valley (and on any given weekend Zano has been thrown out of most of them). I have attended the San Genarro Festival several times, the Greek Festival VII times, and I especially enjoyed getting leid multiple times at the Aloha Festival. But until a couple of weeks ago I had always missed the Celtic Gathering & Highland Games.

I have been living in northern Arizona for almost a few years now and I have both loved and loathed nearby Sedona. It’s such wonderful place, a place sacred to both the Hopi and hobo alike, and yet there’s always something missing. One thing that comes to mind is the lack of a well poured Guinness—actually, any Guinness for that matter.

Zano begged me to give him another chance, so, being the kind-hearted soul I am, I decided to dispatch him over to Vegas. We arranged to have him upload some live feeds to me from the Riviera during the New Year’s Eve festivities. We were going to incorporate Twitter, it was going to be great—and what did I get for my trouble? Bupkis. I got less than bupkis, I got bupk.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—Family fun, isn’t that supposed to be American? Nah. Helping the environment, what are you a pinko hippy type? As I attested in an earlier Discord article, the crayfish menace has reached apocalyptic proportions in Arizona. These evil, yet delicious, beasts are an invasive species bent on destroying all native aquatic life, including, yes…people! OK, not people, but frogs!

Many years ago, when I saw the cast of Friends hanging out all night in some coffee shop, I thought, wow, here’s a fad that won’t last. I meant to say: Friends—an awful show—I knew coffee shops had a place in my future, in the same way that Jennifer Aniston and Courtney Cox probably did not. I only came to appreciate coffee, and those gathering niches that serve it, after I actually owned the laptop myself. Besides, what did we do in coffee shops before laptops? Knit?

Having hardly adjusted to the premature dismantling of the roving stripper mobile, Las Vegas is dealt yet another serious blow. I’m not talking about Obama’s gaffe: I, the Great Bald One, can no longer support the porn industry, or the people who attend these adult entertainment expos. It all started when the Daily Discord’s CEO, Pierce Winslow, insisted I attend the annual AEE at The Sands Expo Center. Normally you would never find me anywhere near such smut, unless I have a roll of singles. Luckily, as a cabby...

Prior to this year’s Thanksgiving feast, my sister sent me out into the wilds of Phoenix to retrieve something called a gravy separator. She typically chooses a "special job" that matches my talents (aka: a job that even I can’t screw up). There is long history here of bringing back the wrong cooking sherry, the wrong cranberry sauce, or the wrong homeless person that I met at the bar on the way over. She obviously decided to throw care into the wind this year by sending me to a large kitchen store. This was clearly above my pay grade. It was not some recent increase in confidence, mind you, for the ‘just pick up some ice’ fiasco was still fresh on her mind (ice also has a drug slang connotation).

This short lived mobile meat phenomenon brought new meaning to the phrase Las Vegas Strip. The article in today’s Las Vegas Review Journal ‘Mobile Strippers Derailed’ has me both gladdened and sadden. It is nice to see Sin City has its limits, but on the other hand Live Mobile Strippers! Damn, I’m sorry to see them go-go. As a Las Vegas cabbie, I can tell you, the last few weeks the meter wasn’t the only thing going up. These mobile pleasure palaces brought myself—as well as other cab drivers, pedestrians, tourists, and everyone else in Vegas for that matter—to near Nirvana and to near death experiences.

Nowhere, AZ - My Saturday started out typically enough. I left the house around 9:00AM to hit the trio grande of local coffee shops, then a bookstore, then lunch, then a beer. I drank enough caffeine over the next several hours to give even Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas the jitters. I snagged a used copy of the Tibetan Book of the Dead and then, quite uncharacteristically, embarked on a solo bar crawl (typically I invite friends for solo bar crawls). For my first drink, I decided on a place called the Wine Nook and ordered an Old Rasputin. Reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead called for compatible refreshment. Four attractive women were sitting at the end of the bar. They introduced themselves. Apparently, it was the brunette’s birthday and they were in for a weekend of partying.

One hundred and fifty miles northwest of Las Vegas, amidst the barren wasteland of Central Nevada, sits one of the most controversial areas in our country (besides Michael Vick’s Animal Shelter). I’m talking, of course, about Rachel, Nevada, a one mailbox town so devoid of life it didn’t even appear on my GPS (and it really only has one mailbox, which also did not appear on my GPS). The nearest real town to Rachel is sixty miles to the south. There is no cell phone service and no gas station in or around Rachel. The town motto is ‘Don’t Run Out of Gas in Rachel.’ They’re not kidding. To accentuate that point, there is a sign next to the town motto that says, ‘We’re Not Kidding!’

The Monte Vista is the centerpiece of downtown Flagstaff, AZ. The hotel is also believed by locals to be quite haunted. Built in 1926, the old structure stands as a testament to the ingenuity of the new world’s frontier pioneers, the people of the land, the common clay of the great American west…you know, morons. The hotel is complete with a Phantom Bellboy who reportedly—and I’m not making this up—knocks at random doors and in a muffled voice says “room service”. Talk about an unimaginative afterlife.

The night was moist and clingy like a BBQ-sauce-smeared wet nap. A damp chill hung in the air like a BBQ-sauce-smeared wet nap. OK, I’m out of similes. I got nothing. As fate would have it, there were far too many eateries and drinkeries within walking distance of our hotel to do any justice to the ghosts of Gettysburg. In a spirits vs. spirits grudge-match in my world, the carboxyl group version trumps ectoplasm every time. Some people shake at the sight of spirits; I shake when I don’t get enough of the other kind.

A cultural parasite festers within the taverns and barrooms of America. Machinery grinds at our souls and sucks at our wallets. When the internet jukebox first hit the scene, we were lured by the unlimited access to songs and the improved sound quality.

I am worried about my friend, Dave. Unlike most of our fellow Discordians, Dave never made the successful transition from the bar scene to the coffee shops. Dave never even made the ever important transition from the bars to the pubs either. In fact, if memory serves, he never made the transition from junior high to high school, but that’s a different story (spelled GED, incidentally).